The Perfectionist
by 0ri
Summary: Seishirou is a perfectionist. [reuploaded due to glitch.]


Seishirou is a perfectionist.

Warnings: Shockingly, nothing.

**EDIT **I don't know why, or how, but fanfiction ate this story. And with it went miss midori's review, which made me upset. At least I have it in my e-mail.

-

-

-

A boy of three years old looks at himself in a long, thin mirror, framed in black, his reflection blankly staring back at him. He doesn't smile at himself. His countenance is of utter seriousness, as he steps onto a stool to give himself the benefit of height, looking himself over, as flakes of snow tower into white, crystalline castles outside in Kanazawa – cotton veiling over the window's glass, as soft as a pale curtain.

It's cold, ridiculously cold, even inside, and the boy breathes, staining the glass in fog as he exhales, blurring his own reflection. He frowns, disliking like that immediately, and moves his gloved fingers to wipe away the smug. Yet it does not clean properly, and the smear of his fingers is left on the once spotless article, even though the barrier of cloth had confided his hands.

Just slightly irked, the toddler moves away from the mirror, stepping off the stool, his snow boots squeaking as they come in contact with the floor.

The home smells of some thing morbid.

The boy creeps away from his mother's room, away to the tiny kitchenette to dig in a drawer below the sink where his mother keeps all the pesticides for cleaning. He easily finds one specifically for cleaning glass, though he can't… quite… reach one of the higher cabinets for a small towel. He sighs after hopping in place for a good two minutes, his thick clothes making him break out a small, uncomfortable sweat. He instead settles for a few napkins which are in much closer proximity. They'll do the job as well as a towel.

Easily he navigates throughout the home, relocating his mother's room and then the mirror, and, gripped with a sudden excitement, dashes over to the object. He finds it difficult to hold the handle of the bottle properly with gloves on, but he manages, leaking the liquid onto a napkin and unhurriedly erases the smudge. He then folds up the napkins with the sublimity of a four season's hotel maid and moves back into the kitchen to toss the used napkins in the waste-bin and put the pesticides back in its place.

He skips back jollily to the room, glad to have the small task done, and props him self back on the stool, chin held high with pride.

But then he frowns again. His coat is a bit large for the size of his body, the bottom of it coming down nearly to his knees - a little further then it's supposed to. It's a creamy white color with large black buttons – the pale cuffs come far past his wrists, revealing the dark blue of his turtleneck sleeves. Though this is not what the problem is. The boy draws his hands together to the front of his chest, where a small wrinkle is – and – smoothes it out with his gloved hands. It seems to reappear once he moves his hands away, and his frown deepens, his almond eyes narrowing in intense concentration. Again, he smoothes it out, not knowing internally himself why the coat must be completely immaculate, but it _must_ - it's brand new - so he goes over the wrinkle again and again, to no avail each time, but stubbornly persists in his plight.

He sighs, finally realizing his effort is completely futile, and kneels down on the stool and then repositions himself in a sitting position, his feet dangling from stool. He crosses his arms, trying to ignore the thin line of the wrinkle and put his mind to another task, example – the cake on the fridge.

Surprisingly, this does not work.

He glares at the mirror, as if it is to blame for his problem, and tries once more to fix the inappropriate wrinkle. It's futile. He crosses his arms once more, but then his body jolts slightly when a woman's body, no older then eighteen, comes into the reflection; right by his side.

The woman smiles at her son as he blinks into their reflection; her kimono a perfect, elegant black decorated with intricately detailed white cranes and white camellias. The silk shifts along the planes of her body as she crouches down to her son's height, her lips painted a crimson, lovely red, gleaming in the soft light. Her hair is as fine as a geisha's, each strand as dark as night, thin twines of string drawn up to the back of her head then coming down her slender back.

"What's wrong, Seishirou-kun?"

Seishirou sighs, subconsciously leaning towards the familiarity of his relative, enough to place the side of his face against her shoulder. He looks up into the eyes of his mother, hoping she can help.

"There's a wrinkle…" He indicates with his gloved hand, pointing to the line. "On my coat. It won't go away."

Setsuka giggles then, and takes her son by the hand, helping him up his feet. Seishirou hops off the stool and stares up at her, eyes dim. Setsuka runs a hand like water through Seishirou's bangs, adoring in the silken, Japanese texture, no less or perhaps even more fine than her own. "You can wear another coat, if you want. I'll iron this one, okay?"

The toddler looks surprised by this suggestion, and waves one of his hands. "But Kaa-san – You told me you wanted to wear _this_ coat."

"It's fine, go on and change, and leave the coat out on your bed." Delighted, Seishirou let's go of his mother's hand and excitedly exits the room. Setsuka sighs, knowing within a few months that his innocence would be shattered.


End file.
